


Wonderful Tonight

by LelithSugar



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: ...but that is?, Anal Sex, Dinner, Dinner Parties, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Prostate Orgasm, Service Top, Showing Off, Smut, is not a tag, is there such a thing as dinner party porn, slow burn as fuck for a PWP though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 05:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21315142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: Their first dinner party goes off without a hitch and there's only one thing Harry wants to complete his perfect evening. Eggsy is - unsurprisingly - eager to please.
Relationships: Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin
Comments: 41
Kudos: 234





	Wonderful Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Please accept this incredibly slow burn PWP because I've rewritten it four times and it's doing my nut in. If at any point you want to skip to the sex, control+F for "go to bed".

Wonderful Tonight

“He’s quite something, isn’t he… the new lad?” 

“Isn’t he, indeed,” agrees Harry, incredibly mildly and in good humour considering the circumstances. He’s watched old Andrews watching Eggsy for the last hour at least, and Harry’s had one too many cocktails and several too many hours of sticky June socialising to work out quite how he feels about it. He rather thought these sort of garden party mixers had gone the way of most of the businesses and families still under the impression Kingsman were simple tailors - and he supposes they have - in that a few remain, pretences must be upkept, and the posh set do not change one iota. “Though that just goes to show how long it’s been since we last did this. Eggsy’s been with us at least two years now.”

“Has he really? Well then it must have been, I’d not have missed  _ that _ parading around.” Harry’s not sure Eggsy’s parading, exactly. He looks absolutely gorgeous in his cream linen suit and he knows it, make no mistake, but he mostly can’t help how naturally charming he is, particularly after a few of the hostess’ Pimms and Prosecco concoctions. The salmon pink shirt and pocket square might be a bit obvious _ ,  _ admittedly, but there’s nothing to be done for the way the lightweight fabric sits across his arse - it’s not as though he can help it. At least Andrews’ stare is sympathetic. “ Do you happen to know if he, ah… if he’s...?”

“Oh, most certainly.” Is that enough of a hint? It might be, to someone willing to take one.

Side by side, in warm silence, they watch Eggsy touch his company on the arm to excuse himself to turn to someone else, handing two drinks from the table to the couple he’s introducing to a third near stranger. He’s a natural. 

“I know I’m terribly old for him, and no match at all for his beauty … but I’m not without my means, as you know.” What Andrews means - and trusts the kindred soul in Harry to understand - is that he’s old as dust, richer than Switzerland and completely, helplessly gagging for the merest taste. “Do you think you might put in a word on my behalf, if you get the chance?”

“I’m afraid, much like yourself, I tend to find myself with other things aforethought when Eggsy’s around.” Harry nods when Eggsy turns at the sound of his name, and Eggsy starts to make his way over, shoulders loose and smile broad. “I’ll try to remember over breakfast, but I can’t promise to give you a fair pitch.”

Harry doesn’t turn back to watch the penny drop as Eggsy slips an arm around his waist and pokes him playfully in the chest with the forefinger of the hand holding his drink.

“Cab’s gonna be here in ten.” His gaze goes from Harry’s lips to his eyes, eventually. “ What you tellin’ me over breakfast?”

“I’m afraid I’ve clean forgotten already. Must be my age, or the heat.” Harry plucks the strawberry from the rim of Eggsy’s glass and Eggsy bites it right from his fingers. He’s pink in the cheeks and hazy in the eyes; the cab was a well timed call. “Good evening, Andrews. Let’s not leave it two years next time. Seems we have catching up to do.”

*******

“You were wonderful today.” Harry undoes his buttons with his tie hanging loose around his neck. Eggsy’s already stripped out of the top half of his devastating pastels, but he pauses to pay attention. It’s almost like a debriefing - which tickles Harry, considering how close they are to the actual removal of briefs and perhaps the amount he’s had to drink - and it’s always worth giving Eggsy proper feedback. He glows when people compliment him, and Harry isn’t sure if he knows.

The party 's mix of old school chums and well-off contacts was an incestuous sort of set, so it wasn’t unreasonable for Eggsy to be nervous about it. Moreso, somehow, for the lack of a role or an alias to play other than the most basic cover of his ‘tailor’ self. He’s always been so concerned about embarrassing Harry... and perhaps that’s where he’d slipped into cautious subtlety, only really showcasing their relationship when Harry had lead. That was a shame, in hindsight.

Harry rolls and puts the school tie away with the loose hope he won’t be required to wear it for a good long while. Eggsy hadn’t been familiar with the old boys’ unwritten codes, couldn’t quite believe it was the done thing until he saw how many others had dusted similar nods out of their wardrobes. Thought he was hilarious with his “bet you were  _ head boy, _ weren’t you” and was absolutely delighted by Harry’s quasi-demure “I’m sure it depends who you ask.” once it had sunk in.

But it’s worth keeping his hand in with the obscure traditions of the landed class, and Harry  _ had _ enjoyed indulging in the grand old custom of showing off whatever pretty bit of stuff your wiles and your wealth had netted you in the least modest way possible, hence Eggsy had no tie at all to wear today - the open necked shirt just teasing at skin - and no socks with his boat shoes. Just little nods: _ I don’t belong here but don’t I brighten the place up?  _ And hadn’t they all loved him, this beautiful young novelty with the surprising wit for someone not one of theirs; swept him up in cheek kisses and secret giggles, eager to introduce him to the excesses of their kind. 

“Sorry I didn’t warn you about all the drugs, and the croquet. I thought you handled it beautifully.”

Eggsy winks. “Know my limits. That duchess is a fucking fiend though, gotta watch that one.”

And Harry has no idea whether he’s talking about the recreationals or the lawn games at this point; could be either, really, and on all counts Eggsy had conducted himself as not only the perfect gentleman, but the perfect agent: not all nor nothing; not first nor last; not standing out for anything except his charm and his decorative value. He’ll be the talk of the group for some time, in that rather flattering aspect… or Harry will, and isn’t that a lovely thought.

Which reminds him of the other true compliment: the unspoken one in long looks, the knowing elbows and the unknowing misstep.

“Did you know, Andrews was about to make a play for you?”

“Oh  _ that’s  _ what all that was about.” Eggsy stops with one leg out of his trousers. It’s an unfortunate position from which to start laughing, but it’s mostly a challenge of a smile, lovingly at Harry’s expense. “Thought my ears were burning. Was he trying to use you as _wing man?_! ” 

“Mm.” Harry continues on his belt, and perhaps the timing of that seems like an invitation because Eggsy steps closer; leaves his trousers in a soft ripple of linen on the floor. His boxers matched his shirt, - baby pink - and Harry supposes that was actually a reasonable choice for something that wouldn’t show through cream cotton… and he’d definitely have noticed if they did. “It appears my staring’s more obvious than I’d hoped.”

“Or it ain’t obvious enough. Think he got the message though. Ve-ry…” Eggsy squeaks it because Harry pinches him on the arse half way through and doesn’t let go; uses his handful to pull him up against him and let the open front of his trousers tell the rest of the story. A story of warm afternoons and fizzy wine and the constant low level enticement of watching Eggsy dazzle, watching all and sundry fall for his charms, over and over... “...happily taken, thanks.”

“And now he’s unavoidably aware of that.” Harry ticks a strand of hair behind Eggsy’s ear and brushes his thumb along a cheekbone: he’s overdue a haircut but it does suit him, though it makes him look even younger. “And of how lucky I am to be the one to take you.”

“Steady!” But he laughs, and his hands are eager. It’s the one way to make Eggsy blush, as it happens. Not the crudeness, but a plain compliment: for all Eggsy doesn’t usually give a corner of a fuck what anybody with a trust fund thinks of just about anything, he does care very deeply about how people see him as a suitor for Harry specifically and the warmth of well-deserved pride certainly does something for him, if the proud bulge in those boxers is anything to judge by. That’s hardly news to Harry but again, he’s not sure how conscious Eggsy is of  _ why _ . 

They come to a kiss too hungry for a goodnight peck. In honesty, Harry uses a long, teasing drag of lips to buy time whilst he weighs up his options: sleep calls, the heavy lure of proper rest after such an inexplicably exhausting day, but Eggsy smells of suncream and Harry’s aftershave undercut with good clean sweat, and watching him being quite so strikingly lovely all day has done nothing more than it’s reminded Harry quite how blessed he is that this comes home to him, to his bed. And how Eggsy preens now that he knows he’s done well: Harry’s not sure which one of his intuitions first told him that Eggsy’s appreciation of earnest praise would carry over to the bedroom but it’s there in the way he puts his body into Harry’s hands, leans in to be guided, appreciated.

That tickle of excitement definitely winds both ways, and if it’s not acted on before bed then Harry’s only going to get woken up by an insistently horny Eggsy in impolite hours of the morning, which doesn’t sound at all awful put like that but Harry’s got a heavy feeling, like the day-long gradual extravagance is going to add up to an unjustly disgusting hangover. So he pulls a now all-but-naked young man towards him by the small of the back and puts a whole day’s worth of admiration into a kiss neither of them really breaks away from, until they’re a sticky, panting tangle on the bed and Harry is steadfastly ignoring what looks like it might be the sun coming up.

*******

Summer’s lawn gatherings become autumn’s more intimate affairs: dinner parties; games evenings… Harry finds it all a touch exhausting but it is nice to have a joint social life outside of Kingsman to what extent they can, and Eggsy seems touchingly thrilled by having earned the approval of Harry’s friends, this seat at their tables. 

“You do realise we have to host, at some point?”

That doesn’t seem to fill Eggsy with the same tired dread Harry remembers.

“That’s alright, innit? We can make the spare rooms up. Pop Mr Pickles in the loft for the evening so people can go for a wazz without having fuckin’ heart failure.” He looks down to where the dog’s successor is pogo-ing up to knee level, frantically waving the knot of rope he’s got between his teeth, eyes bulging like a tinderbox demon. “Might have to pack JB off to my mum’s so he don’t hump someone’s leg or shit in someone’s shoe or something.”

“What  _ has _ got into him today?” 

Eggsy looks at the dog as if they’ve had this very conversation. 

“Men In Black was on Netflix and now he reckons he’s mission ready.” He picks the pug up under its stiffly outstretched front legs and brings him up to face level. “You ain’t driving the Merc, JB! No you ain’t! No you ain’t! You can’t talk and your breath fucking stinks, urgh, fuck.”

Unhanded, JB skitters off to wee up Harry’s petunias or in fact consort with aliens - whatever it is he does in the garden in his own time. 

An event or two passes - their social reemergence is popular, as is Eggsy, and Harry wonders if he can’t spot a few of his compatriots seriously considering the merits of getting themselves a nice young boyfriend to brighten the place up or keep as a tawdry little secret - and their home debut becomes something requiring proper consideration. Fortunately, Eggsy’s given it a telling amount of thought.

“It’s no worries, is it? I can cook, so you can host. You’re better at all that shit than me. Could do that Jamie Oliver thing I did on your birthday?” Eggsy’s always been a gifted cook and Harry had been a little regretful there were no witnesses to that spread, candlelit and deliciously intimate as it was: nobody else to tell Eggsy he’s brilliant, to bring that lovely flush to his cheeks and forehead. Harry knows they will, and the thought of Eggsy’s bright smile, the shyly polite acceptance Harry’s taught him to use instead of “ _ nah I ain’t, it’s nothing” _ makes Harry a little warm in the belly because he knows what comes next. 

Sure enough Eggsy throws himself into party planning; drops hints about wanting to impress and Harry wonders if he realises what he’s doing, how wistful he sounds when he asks what Harry wants him to do, whether there are any bonkers little corners of social etiquette he can brush up on to ensure he doesn’t show them up. It’s recipe practice one night, fancy desserts and napkin folding the next, constantly checking whether he’s doing everything right and then it’s ‘ _ just lay out what you want me to wear, I don’t mind. Whatever you think looks best, _ ’ and ‘ _ I’m brushing up on cocktails. Whatever someone asks for I wanna be like - bam! There you go _ !’ And rather than imagining telling him off for fishing for compliments, all Harry can picture is smiling in the background, basking in his reflected glory, waiting for privacy to see if Eggsy will respond the way Harry thinks to being told just how well he’s done. 

*******

Contrary to popular belief, Harry Hart is not often avoidably late. He  _ has _ made arrangements, should circumstances allow, to literally be carried in a good quarter past the hour to his own funeral, but if a man can’t have a last laugh when he snuffs it, what joy can be left in the world? Otherwise, he doesn’t actually make a habit of it. 

But he is late. active missions and incapacitations will be what they are, villains just tend to have the most appalling manners and he ends up diving headlong into an assignment to bail out a wounded Percival at four on the very morning of their dinner party.

Out of hope, pride or stubbornness he refuses to cancel. He’d been confident in his ability to wrap the mission up within the day and he was correct on that score: it’s done and dusted and he’s on his way home, just a little tighter for time when he’d have liked; eyes barely straying from his watch as he bounces his knee in the cab, tactically speeding, fretting another crease in his forehead. He’s minimally comforted by Eggsy’s text of  _ “it’s cool love, if you’re late I’ll tell ‘em we was out of Burgundy and you weren’t having it. I’ll stick a bottle down the back of the wheelie bin just in case. _ ” 

As it happens, London’s rush hour traffic is absurdly light for a Friday - everyone buggering off early is a blessing for once - and Harry makes it home at a few minutes to six to the rich, deep smell of shallots and herbs fried off in wine that hits him on the second step. 

...And a whirlwind usually known as Eggsy, opening the door from inside before Harry can unlock it and sweeping around him, taking his jacket, picking a couple of compacted bullets from the shoulder the way one might a speck of dandruff, and ushering him to take off his shoes. Eggsy, - in a neat striped apron for God’s sake, and doesn’t that give Harry the most disgusting little flurry of absent fantasies? - But no torrid three second daydream enchants quite as much as the view actually before him: Eggsy impeccably turned out, the full fledged man of the house, here to welcome Harry home with such busy, tender hands. 

“Dinner’s on, living room’s re-hoovered, I’ve even cut the lemons up for the drinks so they’re done.” Eggsy gives him a kiss, sudden but slowing when he feels Harry’s bottom lip tucked between his, drawing it out into a pleasant little smooch. Welcome home, indeed. “All I need from you, is a hand with these.” He holds out a pair of silver cufflinks and Harry takes them, whilst pressing his thanks as a kiss against Eggsy’s neck. He’s so freshly shaven his skin still carries the tacky softness of the oils and he smells deliciously rich and Harry would love to lose himself there: to hang entertaining, hang dinner altogether and take all the pent up tension of his day and this gorgeously scented hot skin straight to bed, but he’s been a better agent than that for a very long time.

“Would you like your sleeves up a touch, for cooking?” 

Eggsy’s shirt is so well tailored - which in this instance is to say so tight - that Harry can only imagine he had it adjusted to fit that very day. It’s with a dry mouth that he watches Eggsy, back turned, pull the ribbon tying the apron at the small of his back one handed and reveal himself properly from underneath like a striptease. 

“Nah, done all the messy bits.” He folds the apron over his arm and Harry is hit full force by the effect of his shape in such flawless tailoring: the darts sit the fabric flat against his trim waist and contrast the breadth of his shoulders, his sleeves are taut against the impressive bulk of his arms and pull with the slightest movement. It’s almost be threatening, the sheer bulk of him in contrast to Harry’s taller but slimmer frame, and  _ he _ was always told he was broad in the shoulders himself but that’s his stature, not the thick heft that so eyecatchingly denotes Eggsy as the muscle of the pair. 

…there is, of course, no reason why one can’t be brawn and brains at the same time, but when the brawn’s quite so obvious, assumptions seem to be made and it’s the memory of Eggsy’s own tease of _“Thick in the arms and thick in the ‘ead, ain’t it?” _that makes Harry’s stomach flutter, quite ludicrously, at the thought of what people might assume about the pair of them. It’s certainly enough to pull his mind to the present; to recentre it from dwelling on a difficult day’s work to the gleaming silver-grey and green of Eggsy’s tie, the arrow it forms down his body… Harry is going to struggle with three courses of this, he knows this much already. So he kisses him: a last moment for just the two of them before he has to share him for a while. 

It’d be a shame, if Harry didn’t know any better.

“Thank you. Now. Nobody’s due til seven so you go have a bath and chill out. I’ve got this.”

Harry doesn’t doubt it for a second.

When he opens the bathroom door the heat hits him like a wall and if he hadn’t already put together Eggsy’s mindset he’d be more surprised, but of course Harry’s bath is already drawn, candles lit and a drink poured, sitting within reach beside the tub. He’d call down, but the notion of thanking Eggsy m for his considerate gesture in front of company settles around Harry pleasantly, like the sweet-scented suds in the water. He’ll like that. 

Whilst Eggsy puts the finishing touches on the dining arrangements, Harry makes sure he’s got all the blood from under his fingernails. He wet shaves quickly and ensures he smells and looks at least the equal for Eggsy’s dashing turnout. Here’s the problem: push it too far and the natural backswing of Eggsy trying so endearingly to show everyone that he’s good enough for Harry is that Harry has to make sure nobody’s wondering what a boy like that is doing knocking around Mayfair with a dull Cambridge boy twice his age, and if Harry can’t point out that he can still run a nine minute mile,incapacitate four assailants with nothing more than a biro and that very day made sure a group of wannabe sex traffickers never bothered anybody with their horridness again, he can at the very least remind them quite how well he wears a good suit. He shakes his sleeves into place in front of the full length mirror behind the door, and in Eggsy’s teasingly understated appraisal,  _ he’ll do.  _

Being early is in fact the height of rudeness as far as Harry’s concerned, so he doesn’t feel the least chagrin that the first guests have arrived by the time he trots down the stairs. Eggsy’s got it in hand: coats over his elbow, kisses on the cheek as he accepts a bottle of wine; “Cheers, that’s really kind of you, I’ll pop it in the fridge.” He’s not putting an accent on, just himself with painstaking finishing school manners, effortlessly charming but also making an effort and if that isn’t enough to woo and wow just about anybody, Harry might just lose all faith in humanity.

That is not going to happen tonight. 

Of course dinner goes beautifully: Eggsy’s planned it too thoroughly for anything else. Eggsy himself is back and forth from the kitchen, bringing dishes, topping up glasses, which means he almost misses the praise that’s heaped on the food even though Harry makes sure it’s continued until he’s in earshot. The same for the drinks and decor: Harry points out that’s mostly Eggsy too and did they know, Harry had had just the most appalling day at work a plain old tailor can have and had come home to find this wondrous creature had run him a bubble bath and taken care of everything else? 

Eggsy is flawlessly polite under the praise but Harry can see it going to his head. Not as conceit but like good wine, the colour creeping up his cheeks and making him smile in that way he tries to subdue so he doesn’t look smug. Harry watches him as they move effortlessly through food and conversation: how clean and bright and stunning he looks in the soft warm light of the dining room. And in the truest test of hosting talent the guests are happy, tipsy, not enough awkward silence to so much as squeeze a cigarette paper into so nobody is at all inconvenienced if Harry steps out for a moment under the guise of another round of martinis. 

“Eggsy, darling, would you mind helping me with something?”

“On my way! Would you excuse me just a sec?” He steps away from the party and inside the kitchen. “What can I help you with?”

“This,” murmurs Harry, crowding him into the larder and pushing up against him so quickly that Eggsy won’t have time to question what Harry means: the hard line of his burgeoning erection pushes against Eggsy’s leg and for a lovely moment Eggsy just falls back against the shelves and lets it happen, gasping when Harry lets him up from a fierce kiss and gently pushing them both back to properly standing. 

“Behave yourself!” He nips at him, open mouthed and laughing. “We got  _ guests _ Harry. Ain’t blowing you in a fucking cupboard no matter how bad I want to in that suit.” 

Harry grumbles, but gives a nice little grind against Eggsy’s leg all the same. The feeling does seem to be quickly becoming mutual.

“People do keep telling me what a handsome couple we make. And how incredibly you’ve put the evening together. And apparently if you feel like trading me in, that cheesecake is worth a proposal in and of itself.”

Eggsy snorts, appeased enough to let Harry continue the kiss and the accompanying pawing for a few more moments, hasty little nips and rubbing mounting within the minute to something ripe with the potential for getting carried away.  Eggsy sighs when he pulls back, face settling into a well-natured tease at a sulk. 

“Suppose it’s off the cards tonight? Best behaviour, and all that?” 

Harry hums. He’s not aware that he consciously planned any of that sort of late night entertainment, but that reasoning goes over in a light breeze considering how he was always going to feel about Eggsy’s competent, houseproud preening. How Eggsy was always going to feel having that remarked on, appraised. And he’s done so  _ well _ . 

“I’m not so sure.” It could be the arousal talking, or the wine, or perhaps Harry could, at his age, stop kidding himself. “You’ve been the most wonderfully accommodating host this evening. Don’t you deserve to let off a little steam?” He finds himself kissing up the line of Eggsy’s jaw, rocking softly against him again and really, he’s got to stop that if he doesn’t want it to be glaringly obvious they’ve been having a quick grope in the larder.

… so, perhaps he does. That really is extremely good wine Eggsy’s been plying everybody with, after all. 

“I’m sure everyone will sleep heavily after such lovely food and drink. I doubt we’ll disturb anyone if we’re quiet.”

_ “Naughty.”  _ Eggsy manages to slip from Harry’s grasping hands and return to the counter, and starts to set out shot glasses on a tray, pausing for a moment’s thought before choosing spirits to drizzle into them double-handed in a move so deft it sends a wobble down to Harry’s knees. He gives him a dismissive nudge with his shoulder.  _ “ _ Here, look, fuck off and let me sort the proper drinks out. Take those in if you want to make yourself useful.” Harry returns to the martini glasses he’d forgotten he’s brought out, and looks up to find he has not in fact misread the situation because Eggsy’s looking at him with the threat of a wink in his eye. 

“Sooner everyone’s pissed as lizards, sooner we can call it a night and go to bed.”

*******

From the comfortable quiet inside their bedroom, Harry can hear doors opening, steps on the creaky bit of the landing, barely the top of voices but no actual words. It’s reassuring, somehow, the absence of pin-drop silence that telegraphs what’s an acceptable volume: they can have a conversation without the whole party knowing their business, at least, although Harry was already fairly confident of that anyway. He's less convinced he cares.

“How did that go?” Eggsy gets his tie off as soon as the door closes, shuffling it out from his collar as quickly as he can before going for the buttons, looking in the mirror at Harry over his shoulder. 

Those eyebrows are going to be the death of someone.

“Darling.” Something hot and promising unfurls in the depth of Harry’s stomach as he removes his own tie, unbuttons his shirt. His hands want to flex, like they want to put that tie around Eggsy’s eyes or his wrists but that’s not for now. “How do you feel it went?”

“Good, I guess. Hard to know if I’m doing okay when you don’t say nothing.” Eggsy turns to kiss him on the cheek as Harry slots up behind him, and what might have been an earnest point comes out as an almost wistful, hot little sigh and Eggsy stretches his neck out to be kissed. “You ain’t told me off for my manners in ages.”

“That’s because you’re doing everything  _ right _ . You’ve been nothing but charming all evening… unless you count the fit of that shirt, which is just unaccountably rude.”

“You picked it!”

“I know, and I regretted it all through dinner.” Harry goes back to his path down Eggsy’s neck and feels him laughing through the tension in his throat. 

“Well I’m  _ terribly _ sorry. Is this better?” Predictably, wonderfully, he opens the buttons one handed and begins to pull his undershirt up before it’s even fully open, so Harry grabs his hands to slow down the show. He’s not seen Eggsy naked in a good forty eight hours and it would be a terrible shame to hurry this lovely part of the evening. 

“Much. What a gracious host you are.” Eggsy’s shirt comes off his shoulders - with a tug- and down, and the undershirt reveals each ridge of his abs in turn before he peels it off over his head. His smooth body is hot and solid under Harry’s palm, when Harry steps close again, kissing down his neck whilst he works on his belt. “You’ve put on a wonderful evening. Really impressed everyone, and that’s without them seeing what I see,"- and that view in the mirror is quite spectacular - "knowing the things only I know…”

“Ah, come on. You’re gonna make me blush.”

He’s already flushed bright pink, has been for an hour, but that’s hardly the point. 

“That’s interesting, darling, because honestly, I’d be a tad surprised if there was much blood left to go to your face.” 

Harry pushes his hand down to cup Eggsy through his neat black trunks and feels the heat of the rock solid bulge against his palm, rubs at it just gently. Eggsy groans: a half embarrassed, half defensive noise from his throat, and squirms as if to get away but it only pushes him into Harry’s hand, really.

“Yeah, alright! You know I like it when you show me off.”

Of course he does, but it’s the first time he’s acknowledged that’s what they’re doing, in so many deliciously quiet words. 

“Oh Eggsy, I don’t need to. You’ve made me the envy of the room without my lifting a finger.” Not for the first time, though Harry hasn’t showed his gratitude with his hands quite like this before. It’s extremely satisfying, getting to express his appreciation and the hunger Eggsy’s thoughtful competence has planted in him all at once, and teasing at it’s only making him harder, more eager. “Comfortable home, wonderful food, gorgeous boy running around after every whim… What more could a man want for?”

It almost comes out as a moan as Eggsy tips his head back onto Harry’s shoulder. “Oh, I think you’re about to get it.”

Harry steps around and continues the path quietly now until he’s scraping teeth over Eggsy’s collarbones. Eggsy rumbles absently,happily, rocking slightly back on his heels and almost losing his balance. 

“What’s the,  _ hah _ …“ his breath huffs it in a rush when Harry’s mouth finds his nipple, and he deliberately tones his voice down to almost a whisper. “What’s the etiquette on sex when your guests can probably hear you?"

“They shouldn’t listen.” Harry keeps his mouth against Eggsy’s skin as he pushes his boxers down. “How much noise did you make, when you used that room?” 

That was only ever twice and they’ve never had the conversation about what Eggsy might or might not have been doing on those shimmering, strange nights he was Harry’s guest. Not in actual words.

“A bit. Tried not to, but...”

“And I didn’t hear a peep.”  _ And I was listening very intently,  _ is said only by Harry’s eyes but Eggsy knows. They both know it would hardly be the end of the world if someone heard but there’s the current of a thrill in the pretense of that soft coercion, like Harry’s really got to try to get his way when Eggsy’s thinking about manners, like a good host. Another compliment on the pile: that Harry wants him too badly to give a shit about decorum. 

Eggsy visibly pulls himself together, then, like he’s going to make sure he earns that: runs a finger up Harry’s neck and under his jaw that sends an electric prickle of promise shooting down Harry’s back; those clear green eyes tired but clever as they draw up from Harry’s lips.

“So what are you after?” He helps Harry to finish undressing without much ceremony but it’s lovely, to feel his hands, to be naked finally in their capable grasp. “What can I do to cap your night off?”

Harry pulls him flush, hard together so that he can keep his voice all the way down to a rumble. “I was wondering if you'd fuck me, actually."

He feels Eggsy’s almost-gasp more than hears it, and he's close enough to know his cock twitches at the suggestion. 

“Yeah? Are you -? Yeah!” It’s almost too easy: that really was the most relaxing bath he got to luxuriate in whilst Eggsy was doing all the hard work, but he can do a little more. One last push so he can go to bed shattered, glowing the way he does when he’s made Harry feel the way Harry knows he’s going to. And it’s obvious by now that he doesn’t really care if everyone else knows it too. 

Chances are they’ll get away with it and the friends that have stayed over are good sports, not prudish in the least, and on balance that’s enough when Eggsy’s naked and so obviously running hot, so eager to please.

“Just cos you caught me staring at your arse in them trousers,” Eggsy manages, barely a mumble before he pitches onto the bed to grab the lube from between the pillows. Not even from the drawer, so thorough is his preparation, and at this point even that brings Harry out in a bit of a sweat. Half the work is done before Eggsy even lays a finger on him, in more ways than even Eggsy knows.

He’s kissing him again. Eggsy always kisses him right through this unless his mouth’s even more appealingly occupied and not unusually, Harry finds himself putty in Eggsy’s arms, opening easily for the stroking of his clever wet fingers. Eggsy’s tongue helps him choke back the noise he naturally makes when it all feels this good, all the better because he’s eager for it: anticipating the pleasure of every touch, looking forward to Eggsy inevitably pulling out all the stops tonight, just in case. 

“Do you need me to tell you how lovely this feels?”

“Don’t need you to, but I ain’t gonna stop you.”

No words come, though, because Harry has to bite his lip when sickly pleasure shivers up through his belly and that seems to be praise enough in itself. Eggsy responds by reaching deeper,fingers flexing, and he must know the exact moment he rubs over Harry’s prostate again because Harry’s knees unlock and nearly dump him on the carpet, but Eggsy catches him on firm forearms, looks glazedly into Harry’s eyes.

There’s something smug, there, which shouldn’t be such a turn on but Harry’s not going to question it. 

Harry pulls back and Eggsy takes the hint, letting him go and following him down on the bed, always close any touching, near enough that they don’t worry about disturbing anyone with the little noises they barely make when they kiss; even when the kisses are deliciously rough wet slides of mouth and tongue on jaw and neck. 

“Fresh sheets, too?”

“How the fuck,” Eggsy releases his mouthful of Harry’s shoulder, which is a shame, “would you even notice that right now?”

If Harry admits, at this point, what Eggsy’s close attention to the furnishings is doing for him he’ll never live it down.

“I shouldn’t have expected anything less.”

It means Harry’s got freshly laundered pillowcase to bite on the corner of when Eggsy lines up and sinks in, which lets him revel in the weight of him without crying out; the slick and painless pressure that quickly finds where to light up with tingling warmth and then a sharp twang of hot bliss as Eggsy seats just right. His breath is hot on Harry’s neck, his skin smooth, muscle bunching under Harry’s hands as his back starts to ripple with movement.  Harry sighs with a shudder to it, pleasure already curling round his core. Incredible, how responsive Eggsy is to guidance; how quickly and eagerly he learned how Harry liked it and how diligently he applies that to every fuck, watching Harry’s face and body for his cues to put himself exactly where every thrust makes Harry swallow down a noise of bliss. 

If there was ever a notion of taking this easy, small scale, it’s long gone and Harry’s glad of it. Eggsy pulls Harry’s knees up onto his hips so he can rock into him without shaking the bed enough for it to creak or for the headboard to bang into the wall, though how long that consideration will last for Harry wouldn’t like to bet either. He sets his thighs around the narrow notch of Eggsy’s waist and rides his perfect thrusts, enjoys the solid press of his body and wonders if he should tell him how convinced he is that everyone wants him.

Their guests are likely unconscious by now but he knows there’s a kick to thinking about them listening out, wondering if Eggsy’s stepford husband act goes all the way; hoping for a hint of this, of confirmation by way of squeaking box springs or stray quiet moans in the night. That’s if Harry’s even managing to be as restrained as he thinks he is: Eggsy’s strokes are deep and steady and wonderful and already Harry has to choke back a groan as pleasure pierces through him sharp and hot, spreading like fire.   


Eggsy watches him, reads him like a book and every time he thinks the pleasure might settle it ranks up a notch, the pace and the depth and the grip of Eggsy’s hands all crafted to make Harry feel like he’s going to burst into shafts of light with the bliss of it. He wants to say something - to tell Eggsy he wishes everybody could see him like this, pumped and shining, brow furrowed and jaw slack; wishes they knew how good he is where it really counts; that he's sure they _do _ know - but all that comes out is a ragged  _ “fuck” _ as Eggsy grips him by the hips_, _ fingertips digging in to the small of Harry's back to pull him onto Eggsy's cock just right.  This is not Eggsy making an effort - this is Eggsy fucking for a Personal Best.

Harry cannot bear it, cannot contain the need to share that feeling, or change it, or _something, _ “Eggsy, Oh-“ And Eggsy’s reaction to hearing him is  _ electric,  _ the sudden wild flare in his eyes that has to be for the thought of Harry being heard in bliss, of hearing his name said quite like that. He's earned it.

“Shhhh-” Eggsy nudges, voice harsh but barely a whisper, grinning as he ducks to kiss Harry’s collarbones, the front of his throat, “I got ya.”

Eggsy closes his eyes, but his forehead’s shining and when he licks his palm and curls it around Harry’s cock Harry knows it’s because he’s feeling it. He’ll want to bring Harry off before he comes, ever the gentleman, but Harry’s so highly strung the touch almost hurts so he eases him away. 

“Babes? Let me-”

Harry shakes his head, to stop Eggsy in his tracks; to make room for the thought in his head. and what a thought.

“Here, let’s-“ he kisses Eggsy instead of finishing his sentence, and pushes at him until he sits back, looking dazed and eager although evidently not entirely with the programme as Harry goes to reposition them. Eggsy reaches for him, soft and hesitant , like he thinks he’s done something wrong to make Harry want to turn over. 

“I was gonna-“

“I know, darling, I know.” Harry’s throbbing: his body’s promising him the high road to pleasure and when Eggsy realises he’s going to be as keen as Harry is, hopefully. “But do you want to carry on being so gorgeously…” Harry soothes Eggsy with another kiss, teeth holding on to his bottom lip for a moment, “...  _ commendably  _ chivalrous…” a swipe of Eggsy’s tongue that sends a shock through Harry’s belly and makes him shiver - this is right, this is exactly what he needs - “...or do you want me to come without touching?”   
  


“Fucking hell.”

That’s all the assurance Eggsy needs to let go of Harry and get behind him instead, fumbly with haste as he kneels on Harry’s toes and loses his balance. Harry murmurs a laugh, rolls the lube down the bedspread to him and drops his head onto his folded arms, blissful.

“Take your time.”

“ _ Take my-  _ yeah, okay. I’ll take my whole ten seconds. Fucking hell, Harry.” 

Eggsy’s cock is a brand resting in the cleft of Harry’s arse whilst he spills lube all over it and Harry can feel himself twitching, wanting to grasp for him again already. Even without the penetration he’s alight with pleasure, the static of pending orgasm thick along his spine, and the feeling of Eggsy sinking home makes him shudder.

They don’t lose much pace for the pause. It’s quick because Eggsy can’t do anything else at this point and that’s perfect, it’s exactly what Harry wanted anyway.The heavy fullness feels almost enough to tip him over by itself and it’s so, so easy to brace his shoulders and dip his back so that Eggsy can find the perfect angle without even trying and straight away Harry’s soaring, pleasure blazing in hot stripes up his back and he can’t help a grateful moan. Not that he really tries.

Eggsy whimpers and shushes him, tapping Harry on the shoulder and putting his hand to his mouth to remind him to be quiet. It’s not a gag but the thought does it anyway: Harry takes Eggsy’s fingers into his open mouth but hasn’t got the presence to really suck them; just shoves them into his mouth along with the pillow he grabs to muffle the noise.

He honestly can’t help it. It’s the only time he ever approaches screaming - he can usually channel his bliss into sighs and shudders but there’s something about the desperate helpless anticipation of coming like this - of  _ waiting  _ to be  _ made  _ come like this, his pleasure so totally in Eggsy’s hands - that Harry’s never been able to get a hold on without making a racket. 

And the thing is, Eggsy knows it: knows they’re playing with fire; knows that the better he fucks Harry the higher the risk he’ll make some inhuman noise the neighbours will hear, let alone their guests, but he’s too gone to stop. Or he wants it for Harry that badly, because he’s soothing over Harry’s tongue with his thumb even as he’s pounding him up the mattress, right the way through Harry’s muted, open-throated keening and sailing straight into the moment of zero gravity right before orgasm.

“ _ There, _ ” Harry gets out as a sharp breath around Eggsy’s wet fingers, praise rather than instruction and Eggsy gets one, two more blindingly perfect thrusts in before Harry goes into freefall and burns up with bliss. In the distance Eggsy’s hushed “ _ oh my god, oh fuck, fuck that’s it , _ ” that's the response to Harry spattering come in wet stripes up the bedspread under them without so much as a stroke to his cock; dribbling it in pulses as Eggsy keeps fucking him and his orgasm doesn’t really stop when he’s spent - It fades but keeps rolling around his body like distant thunder, shock after shock of near-unbearable pleasure the makes his eyes water. 

Mindless, sparkling, Harry grabs Eggsy’s hand to kiss it in delirious gratitude instead of speaking, pressing his face into his palm to muffle any half-conscious mumbles of the pleasure he’s still reeling in all the time Eggsy keeps going, wringing it out whilst he lets his own release catch up. He’s earned it. Harry basks in it, in his own overwrought buzzing, in the chance to feel Eggsy working up to orgasm and finally allowing himself the way he most loves to finish, his movements coming so quick and shallow they’re almost a thrum by the time he grunts, stills, pulses. Harry feels Eggsy pop the head of his cock free and use it to push his come back inside Harry for a couple of last long, sloppy, savouring strokes, his breath whickering like he’s run a sprint.

It’s too loud, in the dead silence of the night but at that moment neither of them care, and Harry pulls Eggsy down onto his back in an ungainly great heap of heaving too-hot bodies and sweat. As soon as he moves his weight Harry rolls over but Eggsy flops back on top of him, nuzzling in face to face for the messy kisses he always seems to want to come down from a fuck quite like that. Harry obliges him. His head is spinning, and he skipped the last round of drinks. Perhaps they’re in the clear after all, and if they're not he's absolutely going to blame the booze.

Harry sinks into the soft suffusion of latent ecstacy; into the bedding, into the gentle rhythm of Eggsy getting his breath back and idly thumbing down Harry’s ribs. It’s almost enough to make him begin to doze off but Eggsy’s watching him lovingly, still propped up on his elbows over Harry’s molten form. He yawns and his warm breath smells tellingly of sweet alcohol.

“You alright, babes?”

Harry rolls his shoulders and grasps for the duvet. It’s a mess, but he’s too tired to care. Somehow his mind has assigned that as Eggsy's final responsibility, but for now he couldn't agree more with the look of sated pride on his face. It's well deserved.

“You make me think of poetry, sometimes.”

Eggsy snorts. “Don’t remember Shakespeare writing no sonnets about that.”

“Dorothy Parker, I believe.” Eggsy’s silence is his question, and Harry taps the vague rhythm of a stanza against his bare shoulder. “Something  _ something  _ about liking a martini, two at the very most. Three, I’ll be under the table...” 

Eggsy huffs a sympathetic laugh. The first time they’d drunk martinis together he had made it to two and a half and needed a considerable amount of help out of a chair and up to the spare bedroom. Harry waits to get his deadpan back and looks up into his eyes. 

“...Four, I’ll be under the host.”

*******

Harry’s woken before his  _ just in case  _ alarm by the sound of laughter, the smell of bacon. He checks his neck and jaw for marks and settles on joining the household in his pyjamas - once he finds them - and his dressing gown.

Eggsy’s holding court, gesturing with a spatula for their guests’ benefit as well as Harry’s: everyone's just assigning themselves to chairs so he doesn’t seem to be much later down than the others.

“Full English in process, coffee’s on, orange juice in the fridge and I’ve got a painkillers if anyone’s hanging. Hope you slept alright?”

That’s directed at everyone but Harry, of course, but he can hear the tickle of nerves in his tone, the tightrope walk of a dare. 

“Never better, honesty. Hope my Jamie didn’t keep you awake, he snores like the Concorde.” Eggsy looks beatifically blank. “Oh bloody hell don’t tell me you’re too young to remember Concorde. Christ. Perhaps I will have those paracetamol.”

Eggsy sets the components out in ceramic dishes and lets people serve themselves. Crispy bacon, well done but shy of burned sausages, buttered toast…  _ This _ Harry was expecting: Eggsy’s friends crowned him the king of the Full English long ago and the military order he applied to it is still evident, their guests filling plates to choruses of grateful approval. 

Eggsy’s put a t-shirt rather than his usual vest on with his joggers to cook breakfast and Harry knows exactly why: he spotted the nail marks dug into the meat of his shoulders even in the scant early morning light seeping around their curtains, and Eggsy will have done a full inventory in the mirror to tease Harry about later. Still, he looks far too fresh faced and pleased with himself for the sort of night they all had, leaning on the counter, distractedly chewing a corner of toast, smiling to himself whilst their guests console their hangovers with his fry-up.

“God, Eggsy, this is spot on. Is there anything you don’t excel at?” 

“No,” Harry answers for him, quite plainly, just to see the way his cheeks go pink. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please drop me a line or a like if you did, the muse could certainly use a boot up the arse right now and this one was really hard work to get out! You can find me on twitter, probably the best place to find me for fandom stuff these days: [ send me a request ](https://twitter.com/agentsnakebite)


End file.
